


Release

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Canon Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Massage, Max gets spoiled, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), non-specific reference to bad memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he struggles to accept the care and pleasure he receives at the Citadel, receives from her. When she does it like this, it becomes easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

Max’s leg aches. He’s in better condition now than he has been in more than a thousand days, but the bad moments still happen. Mid-afternoon, he’s gone back to the room he shares with Furiosa, taking off his brace to stretch his leg. He’s still there when she comes back from her shift in the garage. She smiles at him, starts unstrapping her arm. 

“I could massage it for you?” she suggests, her back to him as she hangs up her prosthetic.

It’s something he does for her, working out the knots she gets from the weight of her arm. The offer is a fair exchange, though he’s not completely comfortable with attention to this damaged part of him. His tight calf muscle twangs, and he nods, then grunts an agreement, remembering she’s still turned away.

He does know the right exercises. He had been lucky, if that’s the word. The surgeon who did his knee had been good, had even found him a course of what was then called physiotherapy. Max had taken off long before finishing it. So he knew what to do, and mostly didn’t do it. Sometimes his accusing dead pressed closer when he did the stretches. Sometimes they left him alone, with no one to care for him and no reason to care for himself. 

When he started coming back to the Citadel, Furiosa and the Vuvalini had gradually patched him up. New injuries received urgent care, with prods and suggestions for older wounds. Furiosa found replacement parts for his battered brace. Mel, the Vuvalini doctor, quietly recommended exercises that he already knew. Still, he’s started to do them again, if not as often as he should. Several times, Furiosa has come in to find him working on his leg. She doesn’t comment, which is a relief. They both know he’s stopped telling himself that hope is a mistake, but there’s still something exposing about being caught trying. Though she carefully ignores his exercises, there’s a particular warmth to the way she smiles at him afterwards. 

She’s changing, getting out of her heavy leathers. Once she’s down to her shirt and underwear, she gets out the bottle of massage oil, which they keep for days when her muscles are particularly tight. Max takes off his trousers. 

“On your back?” she asks, so he lies down on the bed. 

His leg is very stiff. He groans when she takes his bare foot and flexes it, lifting and testing the leg. His muscles feel like bunched-up barbed wire, scratchy and tangled. When she starts kneading his calf, it’s not long before he hisses in pain. She stops, concerned.

“Keep going,” he says. “S’good.” He can see why she likes a firm touch when he works on her back and arm, ready to grit her teeth if it means the knots unravel faster. And there’s a satisfaction to it, a sense of relief as the muscle responds. Even when it hurts, it’s a good pain, something he can feel working against the harsh, tight-wound aches. She spends a long time on his calf, then moves up to his thigh. She’s finished the oil, but is careful about chafing him, using the elbow of her nub to get more pressure on the worst spots. 

She does his other leg, too – it’s nothing like so bad, though there’s some tension from the way he uses it to compensate – then gets him to roll over. She works the back of his legs, but he’s surprised when she wipes her hand and moves up to his back and shoulders, through his shirt. 

It feels so indulgent. The few tight places are quickly dealt with, but she keeps going, moving and soothing the muscles of his back, coaxing him to relax. It’s pleasure more than medicine, a kindness beyond practicality or need. He’s aware of how deft she is, how cleverly she compensates for her missing hand. He wishes he’d taken his shirt off, that she was working directly on his skin. Belatedly, he realises he still can. She lets go when he stirs under her hand, helps pull the fabric over his head. She kisses his neck before going back to work on his bare shoulders. Max buries his face more deeply in the pillow. 

Unknotting his leg muscles had been a painful relief. Everything she’s doing now feels good, which doesn’t make it easier to take. He wants to let go, to let her take care of him, but he can feel his pulse beating hard in his throat – not fast enough for panic, still enough to keep him on edge. He doesn’t want her to stop. She kisses his shoulder, then starts to stroke his back, smooth, firm passes down over his torso. He’s very conscious that his cock is stirring.

He shuffles a bit when she reaches his buttocks. It’s close enough to the way she’ll touch him in bed; he’s more than half hard. She ignores that when she asks him to roll over again, goes back to working on his bad leg. Her hand is softer now, smoothing out the muscle. 

This time, his foot flexes much more readily when she tests it, his whole leg moving more freely. She hums, satisfied, and leans in to kiss his belly, nosing down through his fuzz of hair. He can feel the warmth of her breath when she mouths at his cock, over his underwear. She opens her mouth, sucking the head through the fabric. She looks up at him as she hooks her thumb into his waistband, pulls his shorts down when he nods.

She doesn’t go down on him very often. Some positions for it are just wrong, for both of them. More than once, she’s been stopped by a bad memory. Though he likes her mouth on him, he usually prefers coming inside her, feeling her whole body wrapped tight around him. But sometimes he wants her in charge of him, or she just goes for it. This is one of those times. 

Once she’s got his underwear out of the way, she nibbles up from his left knee, lying between his open legs as she kisses the muscles she’s kneaded. Her hand is cupping his balls, but she takes her time about getting her mouth onto him, lingering over his inner thigh. He’s already trying not to whimper when she licks up the underside of his cock.

She swipes her hand over his calf – not just stroking, but collecting the last of the oil. Her fingers are slippery when she grips the base of his cock, stroking and twisting. She licks at the head before finally, finally swallowing him in.

Her hand keeps a steady rhythm, while her mouth goes from unpredictable licks to hard sucks and back again. He’s trying to lie still, watching her head bob. His body is already relaxed and unwound, unguarded from everything else she’s done for him. She’s making the most of it. 

Sometimes he struggles to accept the care and pleasure he receives at the Citadel, receives from her. When she does it like this, it becomes easy. It’s like watching her drive the rig, feeling the barrel of her gun on his shoulder. She is ruthless and beautiful and sure. He likes it when she takes what she wants from him, even when what she wants is terrifyingly generous. 

When she looks up, he thinks she might be smirking. He’s too amazed to smile back: just the sight of her, her perfect lips stretched around him, her cheeks hollowing. His cock jerks, and he moans out loud. She grips him firmly, and sucks harder.

“I’m going to come,” he gasps at her. She nods – which makes her tongue slide deliciously over the head of his cock – and keeps swallowing. She clamps her shortened arm down over his hips to hold him in place, her mouth and hand working him as he shudders and lets go. She sucks him through it, then pulls away to lap up the drips. 

She sits up, dimpling at him, a smear of come on her pink cheek. Max is lying spread out under her, panting. He feels boneless: no tension left, not even in his leg. When she shuffles up to kiss him, he licks salt from her lips, kissing away the splash on her cheek. 

He pulls her close, wanting to do something for her, to be active after being so thoroughly undone. He gets his hand between her thighs, where the fabric of her underwear is already damp. She murmurs, thrusts against his fingers.

“Want to,” he says, in a deep growl, tugging her underwear down. 

“Wait,” she says, when he moves down the bed to kneel between her legs. “You’ll undo the good work I just did.” She taps his thigh. Max sighs, then turns onto his back, ostentatiously stretching out his leg. She laughs, but she’s pleased. He smiles up at her.

“C’mere.” He pulls at her hand, at her hip, urging her to move up and straddle his face. She grabs the pillows first, bundling them under his head to support his neck. Max reaches up to kiss her belly, small kisses working downwards. Even this feels luxurious: to lie here, lazy and cared for, having her bring herself to his lips. He looks up at her, past the curve of her belly, the fuller curves of her breasts. She strokes her hand through his hair, her face very fond as she looks down at him. Max looks at her, and looks away, and looks back again, a warm feeling in his chest. He turns his head to kiss the inside of her wrist, and settles his hands on her hips, holding her steady as he leans in to lick.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
